Home
by Lear's Daughter
Summary: During a hostage situation, Jack Bauer meets Jack O'Neill's clone and together they kick butt.  Written for a Stargateland challenge.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Stargate_ or _24_.

* * *

Jack Bauer stood on the deck of the ferry, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked out at the approaching island. Next to him, a woman held the hand of her young son, the two of them oohing and aahing as the ferry passed through the mist. The cool ocean breeze tasted of freedom.

He was back in the States for the first time in two years. He was still a fugitive—after the things he'd done, he would be for the rest of his life—but he had it on good authority that the hunt for him had cooled significantly, enough for him to risk this visit.

He hadn't spoken to Kim, those two days he'd been in LA. It would have been too dangerous. Anyway, for two years now Kim and her family had been untouched by the darkness that inevitably followed him and he wasn't selfish enough to bring it back into their lives. Instead, he had watched them from a distance, Kim and her husband and Jack's grandchild, and found to his supreme relief that they were okay. Happy, even, which was more than he'd dared to hope.

He'd left LA when he couldn't bear to be there anymore—the city held too many painful memories, and it was the first place his enemies would think to look for him—and headed for San Francisco, where he could clear his head and figure out what to do with himself next. He'd bought the ticket to Alcatraz out of nostalgia—he and Teri had taken Kim on this same ferry years ago—and he was glad he had. He'd always liked the ocean, even after leaving his father to die on that oil rig, and the rocking of the deck beneath his feet was soothing.

He sighed and turned around, leaning back against the railing, and tried to decide where to go from here. He still had a few friends in Africa and Europe. There were enormous bounties on his head in South America and Russia, so they were out. Maybe he'd try Australia or New Zealand. He had no friends there, but no enemies that he knew of either.

He was about to go inside to get a drink of water when he saw something that made him pause: the glint of a handgun tucked into the back of a man's jeans.

Jack's pulse quickened and he glanced at the woman and child next to him, suddenly afraid for them. Knowing there was a threat, he couldn't _not_ do something, but he had to find a way to minimize the threat to everyone else—and hopefully avoid exposing himself in the process. Not that that was a priority.

He had just begun to walk calmly to the front of the ferry to alert the captain to the threat when a shot rang out and someone screamed.

"This ferry is now under our control!" a man shouted.

Jack watched as the man—not the one he'd seen earlier—wrestled the captain onto the deck, a gun to his head. On the other side of the deck two more men, each holding an AK-47, began to herd the terrified passengers toward the leader.

Jack didn't hesitate before ducking into the nearest stairwell. He crept cautiously down the slick metal stairs, his body loose and ready for anything. It would have disturbed him how easily he fell into old habits, if he hadn't known that he might be the only person standing between the passengers of the ferry and death.

He had just reached the door to the lower level when it swung open and an armed man stared at him in surprise.

Jack reacted with the instinct of long experience, grabbing the AK-47 by the barrel and yanking to pull the other man off-balance. His opponent opened his mouth to yell and Jack shut him up by shoving his fist in the man's face, dazing him. After that it was a simple matter to grab him by the sides of his head and twist until he heard a crack.

Barely breathing hard, Jack slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and got a firm grip under the dead man's armpits, dragging him out of the stairwell and onto the empty floor. This was the main indoor passenger area, but the small café and all the seats had been cleared out when the terrorists—he assumed that was what they were—had forced the hostages upstairs. He frisked the body, finding nothing of use, then stuffed it into the lavatory and leaned against the door, his mind racing.

He needed to find out how many of them there were. He needed to find out what they wanted. With his luck, this would just be the first step in some diabolical plan to set off a nuke in San Francisco.

He'd just decided to head to the back of the ferry and see if there was anything useful there when someone tackled him from behind, landing an agonizing punch to his kidneys and dropping him painfully to his hands and knees, the gun trapped between his back and his attacker's body. He threw back his head, hoping to get the man's nose, and was rewarded with a knife pressed menacingly against his throat.

"Don't even try to shout," a voice growled in his ear. His attacker pulled away far enough to take the AK-47, pressing the knife harder to Jack's throat when he hesitated to lift his arm to allow the strap to be removed. The man stood, but Jack could practically feel the gun trained on his back.

He cursed himself for his slow reactions. He was getting old, and the man who'd attacked him was good—very good. Far better, certainly than the one Jack had killed not ten minutes ago.

"Turn over very slowly," his attacker said.

Wincing at the soreness in his lower back, Jack obeyed, and felt his eyes widen in surprise—and saw, to his confusion, that his attacker's did as well.

"You're just a kid," Jack said.

At the same time, the terrorist said, "Jack Bauer?"

"How do you know who I am?" Jack demanded. True, his face had been in the news a couple of years ago, but not for long. He certainly wouldn't have expected the first person to recognize him to be a fresh-faced kid with a knife.

The young man was average in height, cute—the kind of face Kim would have drooled over once upon a time—and very thin, with a lean layer of muscle padding his bones and not much else. And right now he was staring at Jack as if Jack had betrayed him personally.

"I know what they've been saying about you, but I'd never have thought you'd be involved with something like this," the kid said.

Jack scoffed. "You're not fooling me. I'm not with them. _You're_ with them."

The kid rolled his eyes. "I'm not with them! Are you nuts?"

There was something about the kid that bothered him, other than the fact that he was still pointing a gun in Jack's face. It was a nagging sense of familiarity.

"Who _are_ you?" Jack said.

The kid's eyebrows rose. "What do you mean, who am I? I'm—" He cut himself off, a funny look on his face. "I'm Jack O'Neill's nephew," he finished.

Jack O'Neill. The name brought to mind the memory of hot sand and blistering sun. Broken bones, angry voices shouting in Arabic. The feeling of his body being dragged, inch by agonizing inch, and a voice muttering, "Don't die on me now, Jarhead." A hospital, and a crooked grin on a battered face.

Jack's mouth was dry. He cleared his throat. "You're Jack O'Neill's nephew?" he repeated.

The kid shrugged, grim amusement in his eyes, and yes, that was why he seemed so damn familiar. "Call me Jon," he said, lowering the gun and giving Jack a hand up, his posture still wary. "There are six of them that I saw," he added, all business. "All with AK-47s and handguns."

Apparently they weren't going to waste any more time on introductions. Jack approved.

"Any idea what they want?" Jack asked, since apparently Jon had seen more than he had.

"No," Jon said, looking him in the eye.

Jack O'Neill used to do that, too—unlike most people, he only looked you in the eye when he was trying to cajole you, threaten you, comfort you, or lie to you.

"I need to call the Old Man," Jon went on, presumably referring to his uncle. He handed over the gun, which was a bigger sign of trust than Jack had expected.

Jack took the AK-47 in a firm grip and turned his back on Jon, keeping an eye out.

"It's me," Jon said. "There's a situation. I'm in San Francisco—don't give me that crap, Old Man, I have every right to be here. Why am I here? You felt it, didn't you? Well, so did I. Look, there's a hostage situation." He summarized their situation briefly, then said, "I'm not alone. I ran into an old friend of yours. A jarhead you used to tell Charlie and me stories about. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeahsureyoubetcha." He hung up.

"What did he say?" Jack said.

"That he'd be here in twenty minutes and that you and I should keep our heads down and leave this to the professionals." Jon made air quotes around the last word.

"He was already in San Francisco?"

Jon looked him in the eye. "Yeah."

Jack frowned but nodded. "Laying low is going to be a problem," he said. "I killed one of them right before I ran into you."

Jon waved at the AK-47. "I figured." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I've never been good at laying low anyway. Let's take the suckers out."

"We need a plan," Jack said.

Jon's eyes were cold. "We'll kill 'em all. That usually works."

There were so many things that were off about this kid, but Jack wasn't going to question how someone his age could fight like a black ops operative and apparently kill without remorse—assuming he wasn't bluffing, which Jack didn't think he was.

They took a few minutes to hammer out a slightly more detailed version of Jon's plan, then headed to the stairwell at the back—just in time, too, as they heard the heavy clomping of boots coming from the stairwell Jack had come down on. Showing a distinct lack of caution the man called, "Frank? Where are you, man?"

Jack and Jon climbed the stairs in silence. At the top, they cracked open the door and peeked out.

None of the terrorists were looking their way, fortunately. There were four of them, standing in a circle surrounding the hundred or so passengers and crewmen. The leader was talking into a cell phone, presumably speaking with a hostage negotiator. Jack couldn't make out most of what the man was saying, though he thought he made out the word "Atlantis" at one point.

The terrorist who'd come looking for the dead man came back upstairs, pale-faced, and muttered something in the leader's ear. The leader scowled and barked, "Hans, Alex, we've got a stray. Find him."

Jack and Jon exchanged a look—not satisfaction, exactly, but something close—and ghosted back to the lower level. Jack hefted the AK-47. Jon adjusted his grip on his knife so the blade laid against his forearm, and nodded.

They split up, Jon to take care of Hans and Alex, Jack to wreak some havoc upstairs. He was putting a lot of faith in Jon's ability to kill, but he couldn't afford to second guess himself. Jack O'Neill had once pulled Jack bodily from a stinking Iraqi prison, though he'd been in a bad way himself. Jon reminded Jack very strongly of his uncle.

Up the stairs he went again, but this time he slipped out of the stairwell and onto the deck, quickly ducking out of sight of the large group. He found a ladder that led up to the crewmen-only level and climbed it swiftly, ending up near the captain's booth, which was empty. They didn't need to steer anywhere at the moment—the boat was, for now, dead in the water.

From this vantage point, Jack could see the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances gathered on the distant shore. There were also a number of rescue boats keeping their distance from the ferry. He wondered what the terrorists' plan was. There was nowhere for them to go.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the group of hostages. Lying on the deck, he rested the AK-47 on the metal railing in front of him and took careful aim. The automatic weapon didn't have the precision of a sniper rifle, but at this range accuracy wouldn't be a problem. However, His timing would have to be perfect, however.

Letting out a breath, he squeezed the trigger, shooting one of the terrorists twice between the eyes. He shot the second in the heart before the first hit the floor, but the leader—the last one standing—managed to yank a hostage in front of himself before Jack could get off another shot.

Jack waited for Jon to take the guy out and felt his heart sink when the kid didn't appear.

"Whoever was shooting will come down and turn himself in right now, or I will start killing hostages," the man shouted. He pointed his AK-47 into the crowd to make his point.

Jack shook his head. There was no question he'd have to do it—he couldn't let anyone die for him—but this really hadn't been how he wanted to go out.

"I'm coming," he called out. He left the gun and made his way back down the ladder, then rounded the corner and walked toward the terrorist, his hands held high.

The leader watched him come, his face twisted with fury. "You killed my men," he snarled.

"Yes, I did."

The man nodded, then shoved the hostage he'd been holding away and brought the AK-47 to bear on Jack. "I'm going to kill you," he said.

Jack took a deep breath and braced himself. This had been a long time coming. He was ready.

Only the man didn't shoot. Instead his face went slack and he slowly toppled forward, a knife buried hilt-deep in his spine. Right behind where he'd been standing crouched Jon, unharmed except for a deep cut splitting his left eyebrow.

Jack slowly lowered his hands. "It's about time," he said.

Jon shrugged. "Turned out there was one more who'd been in the head all this time—seasick, I guess. He took me by surprise."

The hostages were only now beginning to realize that they were out of danger. Husbands embraced their wives, parents clutched their children to them and cried.

"Sir," Jack said to the shell shocked captain, "would you mind taking us back to shore?"

Blinking dazedly—and very carefully avoiding looking at the dead men sprawling on the deck, their blood spreading in pools under their bodies—the captain nodded.

To everyone else Jack said, "Please, all of you, try to stay calm. You're safe and we'll be back on solid ground shortly."

"Who _are_ you?" a man demanded.

Jack smiled. "Nobody important."

Then Jon was tugging on his elbow and saying, "Let's go below deck. There's something you should see."

Jack followed, his mind numb. He and Jon had saved the day, but the cost was going to be high. He'd be lucky to avoid being arrested and executed. He stumbled in surprise when they reached the lower level to find Jack O'Neill, standing among three messy corpses and looking bored out of his mind.

"How the hell did you get here?" Jack said.

O'Neill shrugged. "I have my ways." He examined Jack and there was nothing lazy in those keen eyes. "Never thought you'd turn traitor, Bauer."

That stung. Jon had been so blasé about Jack's presence that Jack had almost forgotten that the kid's uncle—now a two star general, and Jack really wanted to know how that had happened—would hate him for who he'd become.

Jack gritted his teeth. "Never thought you'd end up flying a desk," he shot back.

O'Neill smirked. "Tell me about it," he agreed. Then his expression darkened and he turned to Jon. "I told you not to get involved."

Jon glowered back. Jack had never seen an uncle and nephew with such a strong resemblance before. "I don't take orders from you, Old Man."

O'Neill shook his head. "You shouldn't even be on this coast, Jon," he said emphasizing the kid's name pointedly.

"Call me Jack," Jon said.

"That's not who you are," O'Neill insisted.

"I have as much right to the name as you do," Jon snapped. "As for why I'm here—I couldn't _not_ come, Old Man. She's calling to me."

O'Neill set his hand on Jon's shoulder. "This isn't your life, kid. Just let it go, will ya?"

Jon shrugged him off. "Could you?" he said quietly.

O'Neill looked him in the eye and said, "Yes."

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before O'Neill looked away.

"This is the only life I can have," Jon said. "She wants me, Old Man. She wants you, too, but you have other responsibilities. Let me go to her."

O'Neill heaved a sigh. "All right," he said. "All right. You can go. But you're under Sheppard's command, you hear me? We'll hammer out the details later."

Jon smirked. "You won't regret it."

O'Neill shook his head. "I already do." He tilted his head at Jack. "Now, what do we do about him?"

Jon looked at Jack and Jack found himself pinned by two identical stares.

"Well, he hasn't freaked out," Jon said. "It would have been a lot harder to defuse things here without him. He didn't hesitate to give himself up to save the hostages."

O'Neill nodded. To Jack he said, "You got somewhere to go?"

Jack hesitated. Would O'Neill really let him escape? "I was thinking about New Zealand."

O'Neill scoffed. "New Zealand? It's fine, I guess, but far too safe for my taste."

"You'll be bored within a week," Jon added.

"I know a place you can go that would be far more interesting. I can even get you the clearance, since I'm on good terms with the Man," O'Neill said.

Jack looked from Jon to O'Neill and back again. "What's the catch?"

"I can't get you a pardon," O'Neill said, waving his hand as if that didn't matter.

"Which means you would never be able to come back," Jon finished.

Jack blinked. "That's it."

O'Neill smiled agreeably. "That's it."

Jack paused only a moment. "I'll do it," he decided. He had nothing to lose—and he trusted Jack O'Neill with his life.

O'Neill clapped his hands together. "Excellent. What do you say we blow this popsicle stand?" He tapped an earpiece in his ear and said, "Beam us up Scotty."

There was a bright flash of light and then Jack was…somewhere else. In a large, airy room with an enormous ring set into the ground. There were wide stairs leading up to some sort of control area, where a number of people bustled around, looking intent, apparently completely unfazed that two men had just appeared out of nowhere.

Jon was beside him, but O'Neill was nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd he go?" Jack said, turning slowly to take in the bizarre room.

"He's got to handle the logistical stuff, poor bastard," Jon said. Then his eyes narrowed and he let out a laugh.

"What?"

"He knew all along he was going to send the two of us here," Jon said, shaking his head, smiling reluctantly. "The Daedalus had standing orders to beam us here, apparently."

"Beam us—" Jack cut himself off. "Never mind." He took a deep breath and finally voiced the suspicion that had been nagging at him ever since he'd met Jon. "You're the same person, aren't you. You and Jack."

Jon grinned ruefully. "Thought you'd figured it out. I'm his clone."

"I see. And we're…where, exactly?"

"Atlantis."

"Atlantis."

"A flying alien city," Jon offered. "That some people, like me, can control with their minds. It's currently floating invisibly in San Francisco Harbor. I think the terrorists had some ridiculous plan to try to force their way in using the hostages."

Jack absorbed that—or tried to—and then decided it would be best to change the subject before his head exploded. "Why did he—you—trust me?" he said. "I did the things I was accused of doing, you know."

Jon patted him on the shoulder and wouldn't look him in the eye. "You learn some things about a guy when you're stuck in hell together. And the Old Man and I, we had a lot of respect for David Palmer. And he had a lot of respect for you."

Jack swallowed around the lump in his throat.

A man walked down the stairs toward them. He was dressed in a USAF uniform but had decidedly non-regulation hair and a laconic smile belied by the way his hand hovered over his sidearm.

"I'm Colonel Sheppard," he said. "General O'Neill just called and ordered me to escort you to quarters on Atlantis, no questions asked." His lips quirked. "I'm going to ask some questions. Let's start with your names."

Jack and Jon exchanged a look.

"I'm Jack Bauer," Jack said.

Sheppard stared. "The traitor?"

"And I'm Jack O'Neill," Jon added.

Sheppard just looked at them for a moment. Then he closed his eyes as if asking for patience. "Life gets weirder every day," he muttered.

"For me, not so much," Jon said lightly.

"Let me show you to your quarters," Sheppard said, leading the way up the stairs.

Jack and Jon followed. When Jack's foot touched the first step it was like an explosion went off within his mind, sound and color and warmth filling his world.

_Welcome_, Atlantis sang, and for the first time in a very long time Jack Bauer was home.


End file.
